


but i was looking at her hand

by honeyfig (figure8)



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Genderswap, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Slice of Life, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/honeyfig
Summary: Renjun is good with her hands. Jaemin is good with Renjun.





	but i was looking at her hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fullsoleilhyuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullsoleilhyuck/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [kpopolymfics2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/kpopolymfics2019) collection. 



> **NCT – "Go"**  
> [lyrics](https://popgasa.com/2018/03/14/nct-dream-go/) | [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cD8SYW8rjaQ) | [supplementary](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143174185@N05/27232932142/) \- [prompts](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4e1236ac29ce35b9584aa612656e2a8b/tumblr_p7ye24qimv1vajttwo1_1280.jpg)
> 
> -
> 
> This fic was written for K-Pop Olymfics 2019 as part of Team Alternate Universe 2. Olymfics is a challenge in which participants write fics based on prompt sets and compete against other teams of writers, organized by genre. Competition winners are chosen by the readers, so please rate this fic using [this survey](https://forms.gle/WjgdpEzY4rDuPww19)!
> 
> -
> 
> For D. You are so much more than you know.
> 
> -
> 
>  **POST-REVEALS EDIT:** Hehe it was me all along! Like all figure8 fics this has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/4vciNXeRWgaZTvjZvXOR3L?si=dLDx2LsZRBWIxsIHX9PAeg)! Enjoy 💗

_The moon? It’s free, it doesn’t_  
_cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention_ _  
to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results._

— Richard Siken

 

 

Renjun is good with her hands. She braids Jaemin’s hair with the precision she allocates to drawing, and she holds her paintbrushes like a surgeon holds a scalpel. Jaemin likes looking at her, when she paints, or when she’s bandaging someone. Red on her fingertips—acrylic or blood, it doesn’t really matter.

Jaemin is awful at manual work. She’s good at other things. She’s good at smiling, which sounds like a useless talent to have, but has actually saved her life several times before. She’s good at being in love with Renjun. She’s good at punching people in the face.

It’s a terrible time to be catching feelings, really. The world as they know it is crumbling around them steadily, less house of cards and more lego castle. Sometimes Jaemin stares out the window for hours and imagines life as it should be—blue skies and all that bullshit, but mainly, structured days. School schedules, all that. The thing with being born right as the Apocalypse begins is that the past still exists, in a way. Buildings still stand tall. There’s a billboard advertising a McDonalds deal right down the street. Jaemin wishes she knew what McNuggets taste like. Life is a scam.

“Life is a scam,” she says out loud, because she’s also good at _complaining._ Renjun’s fingers still in her hair.

“Life is whatever, I suppose.”

“No,” Jaemin insists, shaking her head. Renjun pinches her neck to keep her still. “Life is a _scam._ My life, specifically. Did you know Taeil-oppa has had McDonalds before?”

“Stop moving, I’m almost done. Is that the food chain thing you’ve been obsessed with lately?”

Jaemin huffs. “I’m not _obsessed,_ I’m curious.”

In the dirty mirror she can see Renjun bite her own tongue in concentration, holding the end of Jaemin’s braid in one hand, scouring her bag blindly with the other in search for a hair tie. “Ah, got it,” she exclaims happily. It’s a purple one, the color a little washed out. “It matches.”

Jaemin’s hair isn’t exactly purple—it’s maybe magenta, at best. But Renjun’s the artist, after all. Jaemin isn’t going to correct her on color coordination.

“It’s just that I’ve been seeing the damn giant McDonalds poster every day of my life, basically,” she continues, overtaken by the need to explain herself.

“I just don’t see the point,” Renjun says, pinning the braid to the back of Jaemin’s head with a bobby pin. “It’s not like they’re going to magically reopen.” She carefully gauges her handiwork. “Okay, you’re done.”

“Ah,” Jaemin grins, “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Renjun rolls her eyes. “We’re late again.”

Renjun is easy to placate, Jaemin has discovered over the years. When it’s just the two of them and she isn’t pretending to be some sort of hardass, all it takes is a kiss on the cheek. And Jaemin is good at smiling, remember?

 

They ride their bikes to the waterfront. Renjun is wearing one of Jaemin’s jackets, the blue one Taeyong sewed for her fifteen’s birthday. It’s small on Jaemin now, tight around the shoulders, but it’s perfect on Renjun, the sleeves still a little baggy. Jaemin likes seeing her in it for reasons she cannot quite articulate.

Everyone is already there when they finally arrive.

“You’re late,” Mark informs them, aiming for stern but landing on _exhausted._ He got another job recently, down at the pier, with the older boys.

“I’m aware,” Renjun glares. She ties her bike to the wire fence then reaches for Jaemin’s. Liquid warmth spreads through Jaemin’s body when their hands graze.

“Here are your perimeter assignments,” Mark announces. “Donghyuck, you’re with me. Jisung, Chenle, I’m giving you B3. Renjun, Jeno, Jaemin, you’re doing K12 tonight.”

Jaemin breathes out in relief. K12 is easy, and they can get there on foot. She doesn’t mind the messier quadrants, but Renjun hurt her wrist a few days ago. Working with Jeno is a plus, too. He’s stronger than most people their age, and he’s always been nice to Jaemin, at least. Renjun thinks he’s stupid because Renjun thinks all boys are stupid. Jaemin, sadly, is partial to _some_ boys.

“Your hair looks nice,” Jeno tells her, crescent eyes, his expression warm.

“Oh, thanks,” Jaemin beams. They’re walking down the old marina, where A7 meets K12.

“She wears it like that all the time,” Renjun frowns. “I do it for her.”

Jeno doesn’t lose his smile. “Well, it looks particularly good today.”

Once upon a time, Renjun would have just pretended to gag in the background. After, back home, she would dissect the whole scene for Jaemin, instruct her on what to do next. That’s how she got Lee Donghyuck to date her when they were fourteen, at least.

But recently it’s been weird, talking boys. Talking romance. And for a while Jaemin thought _she_ was to blame, with her whole—well—crush. But it’s Renjun, actually. Somewhere around her seventeenth birthday she decided that she hated the entirety of the male species, even though she spent her entire childhood running with the boys, Jaemin always the exception.

So, Renjun accepts the compliment for herself, like Jaemin’s braided hair is one of her many murals. “Thank you,” she says. “I got better with practice, I suppose.”

Scavenging is a decent job. It doesn’t pay very well, but you don’t need a permit for it, and their team leader takes care of the _selling_ part anyway. When Jaemin spotted the ad in the paper, she only planned to work for NCT for one summer, and yet here she is, three years later, having dragged her best friend into it too.

To be fair, almost everyone they know works for NCT. _Dream_ is the scavenging division—mostly kids, teens roaming the city for scrap metal or even better, plastic. The name is corny as hell, like gathering trash at night has ever helped anyone fulfill their aspirations, but there aren’t a lot of companies out there willing to hire young people. Jaemin’s upstairs neighbor Taeyong leads Unit 127, the transport division. Mark Lee’s second gig is with 127 as well, although Jaemin doesn’t really understand what they _do_ down at the main port. She doesn’t ask. It’s always better to keep to oneself anyway.

“K12 is boring,” Renjun complains, tucking a lock of blond hair behind her ear. They've filled one bag already, now swung over Jeno’s shoulder. Nothing amazing, but Jaemin wasn’t expecting much anyway.

“We could climb up there,” Jeno suggests, chin pointed to one of the high rise ruins. “We’ll get copper for sure, steel if we’re lucky.”

“Renjun hurt her hand,” Jaemin says, the exact same moment Renjun goes, “Okay, I’m in.” Jaemin shoots her an annoyed glance.

“Look,” Renjun sighs, shoving her palm in Jaemin’s face, “I can move it just fine.”

And the thing is, Jaemin is always worried for Renjun, always has been, probably always will be. It’s a stone at the pit of her stomach, a constant itch she has become friends with. But Renjun hates it when she fusses, and also, Jaemin is wary now. Walking on eggshells, always asking herself—did I do that before? Did I touch her like that, before? Did we hold hands that much?

So it’s easier to shrug, mumble _it’s your funeral,_ which retrospectively is probably more dramatic than the situation demands. It’s okay. They make it to the top of the rotting building with relative ease, Jeno almost falling to his death only once. _Oh, you’re useless,_ Renjun laughs fondly when he misses a step, grabbing him by his shirt collar. He doesn’t look peeved at having been rescued by a girl. Jaemin likes that, about Jeno.

From the rooftop, their city shrinks to ant-size. Home is easy to pinpoint—there aren’t many lights on in C3, not when electricity is rationed and expensive.

“I think this is our building,” Jaemin says excitedly, index stretched pointing vaguely north-east. Renjun fists a hand in her sweater to anchor herself and then gets on her tippy-toes to see.

“Oh,” she breathes out, “I’ve never been this high up before, I think.”

Like this she’s close enough that the heat emanating from her body is palpable, her presence so concrete Jaemin gets a little dizzy from it. It must show on her face, because Jeno offers her his forearm, concerned.

“Do you have vertigo?” he asks. “You should have said something, you know, before we climbed a 14 story building.”

“I’m good,” Jaemin shakes her head, but she grabs him anyway, lets him gently pull her away from her best friend. Renjun lets her go easily, still mesmerized by the view.

“See,” Jeno hums happily, “I told you. Copper.”

He’s right. There’s bars of it everywhere, in small pieces, twisted, some still encased in cement.

Jaemin furrows her brows. “That’s gonna be way too heavy to carry back down.”

“I can do it,” Jeno says. “Like, at least some.”

“Or we could come back next time with a _cart,”_ Renjun points out.

“Just help me gather a bunch and I’ll take care of the descent,” Jeno insists. “Mark isn’t going to give us K12 before the next cycle.”

Renjun looks conflicted, teeth worrying her bottom lip. “It’s not even steel,” she says finally. “We can find copper elsewhere.”

Jeno raises a dubious eyebrow. “You saw any lying around while we were scouring the place? Yeah, didn’t think so.”

They end up shoving as many small pieces of metal as they can in their second bag. Jeno hands the first one to Jaemin and hauls the heavier one onto his back, fastens the straps around his chest.

“Wait,” Renjun says, “Come here.”

She tightens the buckles diligently, nimble fingers slipping under the leather bands, readjusting. _Good with her hands._

“Thanks,” Jeno twinkles. He’s adorable. Jaemin’s internal organs are dancing the samba.

Going _down_ is actually harder than getting _up._ There are stairs, technically, but with no one to care for maintenance, the high rise edifices in this part of town are literally dissolving day by day. It’s a guessing game, really. Put your foot down, hope for the best.

“Nana,” Renjun calls, “Wait for me.” She’s a little behind, because she’s more cautious than their entire team put together. “Okay,” she pants once she’s next to Jaemin, “Hold on to me.”

“I’m doing fine,” Jaemin protests.

“You’re holding a bag,” Renjun says. “Objectively, your sense of balance has taken a toll. That’s a scientific fact.”

“You’re an insufferable nerd,” Jaemin says, but she wraps her fingers around Renjun’s uninjured wrist anyway.

She’s never ran out of things to say to Renjun. Never in her life, and they’ve shared most of it. They were both born in Year 0, although under vastly different conditions. They’ve shared a room for so many years Jaemin doesn’t really remember what not having Renjun in her space at all time feels like.

And yet at this specific moment, thumb pressed to Renjun’s pulse point, she finds herself speechless. There’s a heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears, but she’s not quite sure if it’s hers or Renjun’s. The night breeze against her cheeks, the dark grey clouds in the sky, the sounds of their sleepless city, all of it narrowed down to this erratic _boom boom,_ hijacking Jaemin’s mind, her breathing. It’s absolutely humiliating, how all it takes to reduce her to a malfunctioning machine is Renjun’s skin in direct contact with hers.

Relief swarms her organism like a wave breaking on the shore when they finally reach the ground. Regret, too, bittersweet and heavy, because Renjun lets go so fast, phantom touch. Jaemin misses her when she’s right there. Her mom told her once, that everything would feel absolutely monumental at this age, always catastrophic. She thinks she understands. Understanding does not help in any shape or form.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

When Renjun paints, the way she holds herself shifts. She gets bigger, somehow, like some sort of shapeshifter, her shadow elongating on the tarmac. Like she was always meant for a greater, larger existence.

Walls are blank canvases. Walls are message boards. Renjun has never met a wall she didn’t want to transform into a story.

Jaemin watches, transfixed, as she dips the wide brush into red paint and splatters most of it against white stone, the motion practiced. From her vantage point Jaemin isn’t sure she can discern the patterns well. She should come down, but then Renjun would know that she was here all along, just observing her paint for hours like some sort of creep.  

It’s useless, objectively, painting. It’s not like anyone is ever going to _pay_ Renjun to do it, even if the whole neighborhood knows who’s responsible for the elaborate murals that keep popping up around town. Lately she’s particularly fond of red and black, darker meanings. There is nothing to be gained from art, materially, and yet most of Renjun’s free time goes to this. Even on their perimeter checks, while Jaemin is scanning the ground for anything of value, Renjun is keeping an eye out for new spots to conquer.

This time her brush strokes spell out _CHANGE YOUR WAYS_ in deep, dark yellow, surrounded by black chains, a thorny red rose, and blood. Jaemin spots a bird, too, wings stretched, melting into the background. It’s beautiful. It’s haunting.

 

When they sit down for dinner later there is dried yellow paint right above Renjun’s eyebrow, like she tried to push away her bangs and forgot what she was holding. Jaemin’s mom deposits a scoop of lentils in each bowl before saying Grace, their hands linked above the table. _My Lord, we thank You for this food. We thank You for this roof._

When they were kids, Jaemin would keep her eyes open during the prayer. If she was lucky, Renjun would too, and their glances were filled with silent laughter, wordless camaraderie. These days they both keep their eyes screwed shut and mouth along the words.

Renjun’s thumb rubs a reassuring circle on the inside of Jaemin’s wrist, tender and fleeting, just as they open their eyes again, light hitting harsh against their retinas. Almost too quick, so inconsequential that for a second Jaemin thinks she dreamt it. In her dreams sometimes Renjun says things she would never say in their waking, real life; but they always touch just the same. There isn’t a lot left to imagination anyway. The space between them has never been significant to begin with.

“Pastor Lee tells me his son got a job down at the docks,” Jaemin’s mom says, conversational.

“With 127,” Jaemin nods. “I know what you’re going to say, but they’re not really hiring. I tried.”

“Oh,” her mother says, disappointed. “I just don’t like that you’re out there at night, is all. I wish they would transfer you to a division that’s more—,” she seems to stumble on her words, looking for a formulation that won’t start another war at the dinner table, “Appropriate.”

“She has me, Auntie,” Renjun smiles before Jaemin can burst into cold fury. She feels Renjun kick her softly under the table. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I worry about you both,” Jaemin’s mom shakes her head. “You do know that, Injunnie? I always carry both of you in my heart.”

“I do,” Renjun says quietly, cheeks a little pink. “I do know.”

It’s only eight when they’re done with supper. The apartment is silent. The apartment is always silent, with just the three of them living here. Outside everything is a deep dark blue, the moonlight raining silver through the window.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Too much cake,” Taeyong smiles when Jaemin opens the door. “I made cake,” she explains, when Jaemin just squints, confused. She practically shoves the dish into Jaemin’s hands. “There is way too much for us, it’ll go bad.”

Jaemin inspects the offering. It looks like a perfectly normal-sized cake, about a quarter of it missing. She doesn’t think Taeyong actually miscalculated anything.

“Thank you, unnie,” she says anyway. “We’ll take this off your hands.”

Taeyong does that. Cooks _too much._ Knits scarfs and sweaters “to pass the time”, like _anyone_ has yarn or seconds to waste, and then dumps the end results at Jaemin and Renjun’s door.

“You kids should drop by,” Taeyong smiles, twirling the ends of her honey-colored hair between two fingers.

“We’ll try,” Jaemin nods. They won’t. Taeyong has a boyfriend now, serious. They live together. Soon her belly will round, and she’ll forget all about them in favor of her own blood. Jaemin knows how these things go. She prefers cutting ties herself.

“Who was it?” Renjun calls from the kitchen where she’s elbows deep in dirty dishwater.

“Taeyong-unnie,” Jaemin says. “Look, cake.”

The corners of Renjun’s eyes crinkle when she laughs. “I’ve never seen someone try to fatten people up so _aggressively._ Oh, is it chocolate? It smells like chocolate. Where does she even find cocoa?”

“I don’t know,” Jaemin says, fishing a knife from the cutlery drawer. She cuts a thin slice, breaks it two with her hands. “Hey, open up.”

Renjun obeys, closes her eyes like a happy cat as Jaemin feeds her the sweet treat. “Ah, _chocolate.”_

Jaemin is overtaken by the _terrible_ desire to kiss her on the nose.

“Do you want to go out tonight?” she asks, mainly to distract herself. “The boys got soju, somehow.”

“I don’t know,” Renjun says, pensive. “Hey, can you get my sleeve? It’s slipping. Thanks. Do _you_ want to go out?”

“I guess,” Jaemin shrugs. There isn’t much to do, in the third district of Lower Seoul. On most nights they just curl up together under the covers and talk. Renjun reads a lot, in her free time, books she collects from old dusty houses they break into in search of stuff to resell. Lately she’s into space. The universe, aliens, all that. She’s good at storymaking, storytelling. With Jaemin she can weave tales for hours, armed only with a flashlight in their tiny room.

She puts the last plate in the drying rack, unrolls her sleeves. “Okay, then. But just for a few hours, right? I promised your mom I would help her in the morning.”

It stings a little, maybe. Jaemin’s mother stopped asking her daughter for any sort of help at the corner store years ago. It’s unfair, because Jaemin is _excellent_ at customer service. She can sell anything to anyone. A gummy grin, her chirpy tone, really, that’s all it takes. But she’s awful at—the rest. Counting the money. Remembering where things are supposed to go. _Counting the money._

Renjun is smart in a practical, down to earth way. And Jaemin isn’t jealous, except late at night, when her small insecurities morph into monsters and she wonders if her mom ever dreams of throwing her away, claiming Renjun as hers for _real._ It shouldn’t be one or the other, she thinks. Maybe if adults trusted her, they’d see that Renjun and her have always worked better together, interwoven, a _team._ Mark fucking Lee sees it just fine, never separates them during their Dream shifts. _Renjun_ sees it too, Jaemin thinks. She hopes so, at least. She really hopes Renjun knows Jaemin has never liked anything more than being alone with her.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

“We nicked those from the cargo Mark was supposed to drive to A30,” Donghyuck tells everyone, extra proud. Sitting on an empty oil barrel, Mark shakes his head, laughter shaking his shoulders.

“I stopped the truck and let you take a six pack. I wouldn’t call that _nicking,_ exactly.”

“Can you let me be cool for once in your life?” Donghyuck fake-whines. “Can you? Marcus, is that too much to ask?”

“We’re all losers,” Jeno says, solemn. On Jaemin’s right, Renjun scoffs _Speak for yourself._ “That’s why we’re here.”

“I want to be a king amongst men,” Donghyuck insists.

“Here you go,” Mark huffs, taking his Dream _Team Leader_ pin off his lapel and pinning it to Donghyuck’s shirt. “For tonight.” Donghyuck’s smile eats half his face, wide and self-satisfied.

“Pass the soju, Your Majesty,” Renjun rolls her eyes. “I don’t come here for the company.”

Twenty minutes later she’s drunk and contradicting herself, cackling manically at something Chenle is saying in Chinese. Jaemin knows just enough to decipher the word _bird._ She’s usually better at understanding Mandarin, but Chenle speaks fast, and she’s a little bit buzzed herself, the alcohol warm in her veins.

“You’re staring,” Jisung tells her, slipping down the granular surface of the wall to sit down on the floor next to her. They always squat old decrepit houses for their parties.

“I’m not,” she groans, punching him in the shoulder. He whimpers, affronted. “Isn’t it past your bedtime anyway?”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “I’m barely two years younger than you, hag.”

“It’s noona to you, brat.”

She doesn’t mean it. She’s always had a soft spot for Park Jisung, lets him get away with everything and anything. His family lives two buildings down, she used to babysit him when she was twelve. He _did_ call her noona then, used to follow her around with hearts in his eyes. He got over his crush somewhere around the time he realized Jaemin was spending way too much time eyes glued to Renjun.

“She stares a lot too, you know.”

Jaemin sighs. “That’s nice of you, Jisung, but it doesn’t actually help.”

“I’m serious,” he protests. He nudges her with his shoulder. Defeated, she passes him the bottle. He takes a swig, burps loudly. God, his mom used to trust Jaemin with his safety, once upon a time. “She really does. She looks at you a lot. When you’re not looking.”

 _I’m never not looking,_ Jaemin doesn’t say. “I know she loves me,” she says instead. “She’s my best friend. She’s basically my sister, really.”

“Uh, gross,” Jisung crunches his nose. “You want to bang her.”

“I don’t want to _bang_ Renjun,” Jaemin hisses under her breath, scandalized. “I want to hold her hand. Sometimes.”

And kiss her. All of the time. A star dies trapped inside her sternum, supernova, flames licking the walls of her body. She can feel the back of her neck burning, knows she must be flushed all over. The soju doesn’t help.

Okay, so maybe she does want to—

“Hey,” Donghyuck says, collapsing next to her, brutally interrupting her train of thought. “Wanna make out?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Jisung is right here.” Donghyuck puts his cheek on her thigh. He looks ready to fall asleep. “How much have you had?” she inquires, carding gentle fingers through his red hair. Some habits are very hard to lose. Donghyuck, she thinks, also feels this way. They learned intimacy together, all innocent giggles and first tries. Jaemin remembers how every time they sat pressed closed together she compared it to sleeping with Renjun, back to back under the same blanket to save space and heating. She feels very, very silly now.

“Not a lot,” Donghyuck mumbles, an obvious lie. “I’m sad, I think.”

She leans down, plants a delicate kiss to his temple. His hair smells like smoke, from up close. Jisung turns his body away from them, closed parenthesis. She appreciates how discerning he is, sometimes, for his age.

“Why are you sad, baby?” she whispers. When they were dating they never used pet-names. Donghyuck called her sugarplum, once, as a joke.

“I want to be loved,” Donghyuck says. The breath he lets out right after is foggy, the air around them colder. “I love, and I love, and I want people to love me in return.”

“I love you,” Jaemin says automatically, but she knows what he means.

“Ah, Jaeminnie,” Donghyuck suspires. “Life would be easier, right? Because I love you, too, but not as I should.”

 

“You and Donghyuck seemed cosy,” Renjun remarks on their way back. She’s still tipsy, coming down from it. She has to lean on Jaemin to walk straight.

“He was upset,” Jaemin says. She doesn’t know why she feels the urgent need to explain herself. Well, she _knows,_ but.

“I’m just saying,” Renjun shrugs. Like that her shoulder knocks against Jaemin’s. In the night, under artificial light, then mixed shadows on the macadam look like twin towers ready to crumble. “I know your mom is worried.”

Jaemin’s voice comes out strangled, shocked. “What?”

“Taeyong-unnie is getting married soon,” Renjun explains. She doesn’t seem to notice how Jaemin is hiccuping now, trying really hard to keep it down, anxiety a mass of bubbles inside her throat. “So she’ll have support, you know? If anything happens to her parents, she’ll have her husband. I think it just woke Auntie up, you know. We’re not babies anymore.”

“When do you even talk about this stuff?” Jaemin rasps. She won’t stop walking. She refuses to stop walking. If she stops walking then Renjun will look her in the eye, and drunk or not, there’s no way she won’t notice Jaemin is crying.

“We don’t? Not really. But at the shop, she asks people about their sons, sometimes. I know it’s not for me.”

“I’m dizzy,” Jaemin says. Even to her own ears, she sounds tiny, her words coming from far, far away.

“Oh,” Renjun turns around to face her, frowning. “Are you okay? I thought _I_ was drunk. Sit down.”

“I’m dizzy,” Jaemin repeats. There are other words. They’re stuck between her ribs, wedged blades, rose thorns. She tries formulating a sentence but all she manages to do is part her mouth and then close it, like a fish out of water. Renjun forces her to sit, hands strong and firm on her shoulders.

“Breathe,” she orders. “Come on, with me.”

She takes Jaemin’s hands and presses her open palm to her chest, metronome heart. One-two, one-two. In, and out. Repeat ad nauseam.

“I’m fine,” Jaemin says hoarsely after a while.

Renjun’s bright eyes are suddenly sharply sober. “Are you?”

“Well,” Jaemin says, “If you ask me again, I think I’m going to cry. But yes. We can go home.”

Renjun is biting her tongue, Jaemin can see it from the way her right cheek bulges. She does that when she’s upset. She does that when she’s calculating outcomes, too. In the end caving in must win out, because she extends a hand to Jaemin wordlessly, and positions reversed, the make their way back to District C3, Street 27, Apartment building 4.

Renjun twists and turns in her bed for hours after they switch off all the lights. Jaemin wants to tell her to just spit it out already. The air is wiry, tense. They’re bad at real silence.

“Goodnight,” Jaemin whispers finally, for the second time. She’s begging, really. _Talk to me, talk to me._

Renjun doesn’t answer. She holds her breath for a beat too long to convincingly fake being asleep.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

“If you can’t keep calm, you need to get out of the room,” Renjun snaps finally when Jaemin executes her fourth complete circle around the table. She’s better at this, usually. She watches Renjun carefully, hopes to learn. The issue is that _usually,_ it’s not Jisung Renjun is stitching up.

“Noona,” Jisung says, and the honorific _breaks_ something inside Jaemin. “I’m not really hurt.”

He fell _through a floor._ He’s lucky nothing’s broken, but the gash on his shin is bleeding profusely still, no matter how much gauze Renjun presses to it.

“Jaemin,” Renjun grits out, “Pour him a drink.”

“What?” Jaemin croaks. Jisung sniffles loudly.

“I don’t have numbing cream. Pour him a drink. Your mother hides the Arak under the sink.”

She walks to the kitchen on autopilot. True to Renjun’s words, there is a bottle in the cupboard, the label in Arabic. She goes to grab a glass, and then shakes her head, muttering _Idiot_ to herself.

Jisung accepts the bottle gratefully, grips it by the neck and swallows down two huge sips. His eyes are big and wet when he asks Jaemin if he can hold her hand in a tiny, tiny voice. Jaemin’s heart is encased in plaster, bursting at the seams, aching. She lets Jisung crush her fingers while Renjun pushes a needle through his flesh.

“You’re being really brave,” she finds herself saying, like he’s ten all over again and he’s just scraped his knee on the pavement. She waits for him to complain about the babying. He’s busy biting his bottom lip, blood already pearling, so she stares at Renjun instead.

Her blond hair is too short to tie up, so instead she wrapped it in a neckerchief to keep it from falling over her eyes while she’s working. She does that when she’s painting, too. Her lips are pressed together in one pink thin line, focused and intent. She acts fast, the thread coming in and out with every puff of air Jisung inhales and exhales.

“Here you go,” she bends down, cuts the thread with her teeth. “Good as new.” She’s paler than she should be, color suddenly drained from her cheeks. He scared them both, Jaemin realizes. Renjun is letting go now that he’s out of immediate danger, her shoulders sagging.

A shy voice comes from outside the main door, muffled. “Can we come in now?”

 _God,_ Chenle and Mark. Jaemin completely forgot about them in the chaos. Renjun slammed the door shut in their face after receiving Jisung. The only reason she didn’t shoo Jaemin out too is that this is technically Jaemin’s apartment, she thinks. Or maybe it is trust.

Chenle trips running to the table, only narrowly avoiding braining himself against a corner. Mark grabs him by the collar, snaps him back like an elastic band.

“One injury at a time,” he instructs severely.

“No more injuries at all, please,” Renjun shakes her head, horrified.

“Is he alright?” Chenle asks, anxious.

“He’s drunk,” Renjun says. “I didn’t have anesthetic.”

Jisung mumbles something incomprehensible. He stretches his fingers, grasps at thin air, and it takes a second for Jaemin to realize he’s looking for her hand. This time she closes her fist around his, reassuring.

“Thank you,” Mark says, looking at Renjun.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” she glares. “Who even let him climb up there?”

“Uh,” Mark stutters, “I never told them to go into the ruins. You _know_ I always give them easy quadrants.”

“He could have lost his leg,” she hisses. “You’re supposed to take care of us. I’ve had to repair three people this past month alone. Do better.”

“I don’t have seven pairs of eyes,” Mark protests, miserable. Renjun’s icy gaze is so heavy. Jaemin turns her face away. If she’s forced to pick a side it’s always going to be Renjun’s, and she doesn’t want to have to do that. She focuses her attention on Jisung instead.

“I’m sleepy,” he whines.

“Is he allowed to sleep?” Chenle asks. “When Jeno-hyung hurt his head Renjun made us keep him awake all night.”

“He was concussed. Jisung is fine, but I don’t want him to spend the night on a table. Come on,” she gestures, letting go of Jisung’s hand, “Help me carry him.”

Carrying a sixteen year old boy through a narrow corridor isn’t an easy feat, but they make do. They probably would have managed better with Mark’s help, but he and Renjun are busy having a hushed, angry argument, and Jaemin vastly prefers weight training to interrupting Renjun when she’s upset. Chenle helps her put Jisung into her bed. By the time they tuck him in, he’s already snoring lightly. The stucco around Jaemin’s heart fissures, affection blooming in her chest like a flower.

“Come on,” she ushers Chenle out of her room, “Let’s let him rest.”

 

After dinner she grabs a clean sheet from her mom’s closet and pads silently to the living room. She almost has a heart attack on the spot when Renjun grabs her by the arm, sneaking up behind her.

“Junnie, what the _fuck._ ”

“You’re not going to sleep on the couch.”

“Uh,” Jaemin says. “Jisung is in my bed.” Renjun raises both eyebrows, a mute _And?_ “Well I can’t sleep in my bed, Renjun, I thought that was clear.”

“We shared for years as kids,” Renjun points out. “We still share sometimes when you’re cold.”

“I just,” Jaemin starts, voice trailing off. “I just, I don’t know.”

“You’re being weird,” Renjun says. “Come to bed.”

Her mother is working the closing shift, which normally makes this an evening where they can be a little louder, a little _younger,_ freely. With Jisung in the room they tiptoe around their things, undress in total quiet except for how Renjun lets out a small giggle when she gets stuck in her pants, kicks uselessly at one leg until Jaemin takes pity on her and tugs it off.

“Bed,” she whispers, like she thinks Jaemin is going to bolt.

“Bed,” Jaemin confirms, flopping back on the mattress with a soft _thump._ When Renjun lays down next to her, the moonlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds hits her face diagonally like facepaint. She’s so, so beautiful it makes Jaemin’s chest constrict painfully.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmurs, unable to stop herself. It’s okay. It’s okay, they tell each other this stuff.

“You think?” Renjun asks. Her tone is hard to place. She’s smiling.

“You’re _so_ pretty,” Jaemin tells her again.

“Thank you,” she says, voice small. She hides her face against Jaemin’s forearm, the closest part of Jaemin’s body, her nose cold even through the thin fabric of Jaemin’s pajamas.

Jaemin doesn’t know what to do with the ocean inside of her, the vastness of it.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

Waking up to the sight of Renjun still sleeping next to her is both heartache and benediction. Asleep she loses a handful of years, morphes back into the child she was so recently still, the lines of her visage soft and relaxed. Her hair is too short to really get messy, bleached locks sticking out just a tad wilder than when it is styled.

Jaemin has a small corner in her brain where she catalogues images like this one, like a stamp collector. Collecting stamps is a stupid hobby, just like collecting coins. Why waste currency when you could spend it? She could exchange these snapshots of Renjun for valuable information, but instead she has decided to fill her mind with countless pictures of her smile, hoarding like a small marsupial before winter, terrified of what comes _after._

The truth is, the moment right before one wakes up, the few seconds during which Renjun does not know where she is and her body instinctively curls towards Jaemin like a plant to the sun, Jaemin blinks and sees a universe of possibilities. There are ten thousand worlds and in some of them they never exist at the same time. There are ten thousand worlds and in some of them they hate each other. In some of them they are promised to other people. In some of them they are bound by blood.

Here, in this world, Jaemin does not know where to stand. Every step she takes the risk of quicksand seems to rise. Every time she tells herself _okay, this makes sense,_ things stop making sense.

What she knows is this: sometimes there does not seem to be enough space within her skeleton to contain all this love. Sometimes it rises like the sea and threatens to suffocate her.

Sometimes the stillness of it is the only refuge. Sometimes loving Renjun is what she knows, with certainty, the only thing she _knows with certainty._ Dramatic as it sounds, idiotic and childish as it sounds. It is a mountain that she has no wish to climb. One day maybe the other side will garner some appeal, but not today.

So she observes as Renjun’s eyelashes flutter, as Renjun twists in the sheets, annoyed at the sunlight, eyelids heavy with sleep. The vortex inside her sternum widens.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

Jeno makes a pair of crutches for Jisung out of two bars of Inox and plastic bottles that he melts carefully under Renjun’s wide, curious eyes. She talks about it excitedly at dinner, _Auntie, that was so cool, a little bit like painting. Art._

Jaemin’s stomach twists uncomfortably and she doesn’t know why. She likes Jeno. She’s glad someone found a way to help Jisung walk, he’s been insufferable for the four days he’s been bedridden. Jaemin has visited twice and Mrs Park looked like she was about to tear out her own hair on both occasions.

Jisung slowly relearns how to use his left leg. Jaemin thinks she preferred it when he was trying to convince her he was tough; he milks his injury for all its worth. For every muscle exercise he succeeds in doing an entire series of she feeds him candy from the store Renjun marks down as expired in the inventory. It’s a terrible and unsustainable system, but it works.

It takes him two weeks to stop being in pain, and another full week to be able to walk without the crutches, although he’s still limping, sort of. In a month he’s almost fully healed, but Mark refuses to take him back. Jisung turns to Renjun for back up, and she stares at him longly before shaking her head in turn.

“Jaemin,” Jisung pleads.

Jaemin knows why Renjun said no. The people she sees in her makeshift clinic in their living room are either strangers or if they’re friends, it’s usually for minor issues. Scavenging is not without danger, but until Jisung’s fall all Renjun had had to deal with had been shallow cuts and bruises and on one notable occasion, a concussion.

Jisung could have died, when he went through the ceiling and landed two meters down. Jaemin thinks about that a lot.

She also thinks about Mr and Mrs Park, and how Mrs Park scrubs toilets three days a week at the central NCT building, and how since Mr Park hurt his back he’s only collecting his pension, one third of his salary.

“Switch Renjun out for him,” Jaemin says, looking Mark straight in the eye, avoiding her best friend’s gaze like all hell. “Put him on my team. I’ll keep him safe.”

“Renjun?” Mark asks, uncertain.

“If he comes back broken I will kill you,” Renjun says. “I know where you sleep.”

The joke is enough to diffuse the atmosphere. Gratefulness seeps through Jaemin’s bones. Renjun always has her back, even when she doesn’t expect her to.

 

She waits until it’s dark and the city has gone quiet to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

From the other bed, Renjun makes a sleepy, confused sound. “Huh?” The springs in the mattress whine as she moves around.

“For springing the team thing on you earlier,” Jaemin clarifies. It’s been bothering her, she can’t fall asleep.

“It’s fine,” Renjun yawns. “I get why you did it.” She pauses for a beat before adding, “It’s not like we have to do everything together all the time anyway, right?”

Something heavy settles in Jaemin’s guts, a stone sinking at the bottom of the river. They spend plenty of time apart. Renjun works day shifts at the corner store, and she disappears for hours to leave her mark on brick walls and grey facades. Jaemin has the boys, and the odd jobs she picks up here and there. They have a _routine,_ fixed moments where they meet, like—like family, which they _are,_ but also like—

 _You’re my person,_ Jaemin would say if she had the courage. _When I yearn for lonely roads they are always roads I want to walk with you._

And it is the same anxiety as always, in the end. _Am I not your person too?_

“No,” she says, staring at the ceiling in the dark. She squints so intensely she starts seeing purple and yellow shapes dancing behind her eyelids. “No, I guess not.”

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

She doesn’t like the distance it puts between them, their Dream shifts being separate affairs. She didn’t realize until she lost it, how the night unties tongues. Under the starlight it’s easier being true.

Renjun gets paired with Jeno systematically now, the way Mark used to pair her with Jaemin. The third person is always up for grabs, but it was _RenjunandJaemin,_ no discussion. It makes sense business-wise, it yields results. Renjun is tiny and smart and she has a good eye, Jeno is strong and his endurance is unequaled—they make a good duo.

Renjun starts talking about Jeno at home. It’s disconcerting, because Jeno is _Jaemin’s_ friend. Renjun only coexists with the boys by necessity, like a solitary moon sharing a planet with other satellites. _Chenle_ she brought in herself, and she has her own little troupe. Sicheng from upstairs, who speaks to her in Mandarin exclusively. Then there’s an older girl she knows through Taeyong, who goes by a weird nickname, something like a number. Jaemin always forgets because Renjun just calls her _dajie._ And then Renjun has _her_ boys, her childhood friends from her old neighborhood, her only tie to her other life—before her parents’ death.

So when she casually tells Jaemin’s mother about Jeno helping her carry her art supplies around while she was scanning for a new empty spot to graffiti, Jaemin thinks it’s a fluke. But it happens again. Jeno bought her ice cream. Jeno found three kittens abandoned behind a car and took them back to his house even though their fur makes him sneeze. And oh, it’s funny that Jaemin would say that, because Jeno mentioned—

Jaemin isn’t stupid. She’s aware of what’s going on. It’s just that until Renjun sits her down with a serious look on her face and says _I want to ask you something,_ shifting on her feet, Jaemin believes her jealousy is unfounded.

“I think Jeno likes me,” Renjun says.

“Ah,” Jaemin says.

“I might like him back,” Renjun continues.

It’s a little bit like walking through a frozen waterfall, all in all.

“Oh,” Jaemin says.

“And I wanted to make sure that was alright with you,” she finishes, voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Uh,” Jaemin says. Then her brain seems to catch up. “Why would I have a say in this?” she asks, terrified. _She knows. She knows._

Renjun stares at her like she’s dumb. “Because you liked him first, obviously.”

“I did?” Jaemin says. It sounds a little strangled.

Renjun blinks. “Are you alright?”

“I’m super good,” Jaemin says hastily.

“At first I thought he was talking to me to get to you,” Renjun elaborates. “But he’s really nice. And he spends time with me. He likes to spend time with me. And he asked me out.”

“Okay,” Jaemin says. It’s playing like a theater scene. She’s not inside her own body. She’s an observer, and this is a train wreck. “You should date him, then,” she hears herself say.

“Okay,” Renjun mimics. She still seems unsure. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

Jaemin feels hysterical laughter bubbling up and does her best to contain it. Oh, she minds. She really, really minds.

“I don’t mind,” she grins forcefully, her best smile, her _Renjun_ smile.

“Okay,” Renjun says for the second time.

It’s weird. It really looks like she still has something left to say.

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

Renjun and Jeno go on their first couple outing on a Friday night. He takes her down to the pier. He’s packed a _picnic,_ Mark tells Jaemin conspiratorially. Behind him Donghyuck looks at Jaemin with something akin to pity in his glance. She hates it.

She’s at a house party. They don’t do that, usually, prefer their small intimate gatherings in decrepit buildings. But someone was invited to this and then that person invited the rest of them, and Renjun is on a _date,_ so Jaemin is not going to say no to free alcohol.

In a corner of the packed room she can distinguish Taeyong’s slim frame. Her hair is up in a bun, and she’s already awfully intoxicated. When she laughs she throws her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Objectively she is beautiful. Jaemin wishes she could look at objectively beautiful people and feel something other than aphasia.

Taeyong’s fiancé drapes his leather jacket around her shoulders. She curls against his side like a happy cat, seeking out his warmth. He stares at her like he’s never seen her before and cannot quite believe his eyes. Jaemin feels like she shouldn’t be looking, so she turns away, face red.

Someone shoves a paper cup into her hands. She recognizes Donghyuck’s shirt before she sees him fully.

“Drink,” he tells her. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I would never cry in public,” she scrunches her nose in disdain.

“I know,” he says kindly. She downs her liquor.

“That was abject.”

“But it’ll do the job,” Donghyuck counters. He’s not wrong.

The party itself is a blur after that. Jaemin isn’t actually that drunk, to her great regret. It’s more that everyone else is, and she doesn’t have the heart to participate. At one in the morning, when even Donghyuck has given up on making her act like a normal human being and not a ball of concentrated gloom, she decides to go home.

The breeze is as sobering as a slap in the face. She drags herself back to their street in silence, kicking rubble with the tip of her shoe once every two steps. All that’s missing is melancholic music, really.

 

The clock in the kitchen marks three when a noise wakes Jaemin up so suddenly her heart almost beats out of her ribcage. She runs to the living room ready to knock out an intruder and instead finds her best friend looking haggard and small standing in front of the couch.

“Renjun,” she says cautiously, in the voice of someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“I went to the party,” Renjun says. “I looked for you, you weren’t there.” Her cheeks are an angry pink.

“Did you run back here?”

Renjun nods. “I really needed to talk to you.”

Worry starts creeping up Jaemin’s spine like a colony of ants.

“Are you okay?”

“What? I’m fine,” Renjun dismisses. She does not look fine. “I have to tell you something.”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jaemin tries, “We can talk tomorrow.”

“I kissed Jeno,” Renjun says simultaneously.

Jaemin staggers. “Alright,” she says after a deep, deep breath. “I told you, I don’t like him.”

“I know,” Renjun says. Jaemin _doesn’t understand,_ and she still has too much adrenaline pumping through her arteries and the inside of her mouth tastes like death. “I don’t like him either,” Renjun says.

At first it does not register. “If you know, then—wait. What?”

“I don’t like Jeno,” Renjun repeats.

“Oh,” Jaemin says, like some sort of broken record. “You said you kissed him,” she adds. “I—I think you’re trying to tell me something.”

She feels a little lightheaded. Renjun gives her a long look, the type of look usually reserved for when Jaemin does something _really_ stupid. Fond, amused, concerned, all at once.

“I had to try at least once,” she says finally. “Kissing a boy. He seemed like a fine boy to kiss.”

“Kissing a boy,” Jaemin parrots.

“I don’t want to kiss boys,” Renjun says.

The pieces of the puzzle finally all fall into place. Jaemin _still_ feels horribly lightheaded.

“You want to kiss girls,” she says, just to be absolutely clear.

“I want to kiss _you,”_ Renjun says.

That’s when Jaemin starts crying.

It’s anticlimactic, as far as resolutions go. She has carried her love for Renjun like a torch for years now, expanding slowly into the behemoth it is today. Little by little the impossibility of love returned became her companion too. She is used to the burden. Like a familiar scab one picks at too often, Renjun not loving her back was a comforting pain.

“Oh, Jaemin,” Renjun breathes out softly, pulling her into her arms as Jaemin’s body shakes, wracked with sobs.

“I’m f-fine,” Jaemin stutters. “This is embarrassing.”

“Jaemin,” Renjun says again, like her name is a key to a locked door Renjun has stared at empty-handed for far too long. “You do love me, do you? It’s not just me?”

_Am I your person? Am I your person like you are my person?_

“I love you,” Jaemin says. The world does not come crashing down. Maybe because it already did a few months before Jaemin’s birth.

Maybe because this isn’t a catastrophic love.

“Then you _are_ fine,” Renjun says, suddenly radiant. The corners of her eyes are glistening. She presses her lips to Jaemin’s wet cheekbone, darting her tongue to taste the salt of her tears. “And I love you. I love you.”

Her fingers twist Jaemin’s sleep shirt, tug her closer.

 _I’m sorry,_ unspoken. _I’m sorry that it took me so long._

 

⛓⛓⛓

 

Jaemin wakes up to the strangest smell. It’s not bad, but it’s aggressively unfamiliar and strong. Butter, she thinks, bleary-eyed. And… meat? It’s very confusing.

She wraps herself into a fleece blanket and pads to the kitchen. She’s expecting to find Renjun there, seeing as she wasn’t in their makeshift double bed when Jaemin woke up. She’s not expecting Jisung sitting at the table, neither Renjun hunched over their one battered frying pan.

“You’re awake,” Renjun says happily.

“Barely,” Jaemin grumbles. “Is there coffee?”

Jisung pushes a mug in her direction. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Jaemin sighs, before frowning. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s visiting,” Renjun says.

“She bribed me,” Jisung says.

“Okay,” Jaemin rolls her eyes, drinking a large gulp of black coffee, “I’m not alive enough to understand what’s going on. What’s the smell?”

Renjun beams at her. “Nuggets.”

“Nuggets?” Jaemin repeats.

“Nuggets,” Jisung confirms.

“Like the ones on the poster?” Jaemin asks.

“Well,” Renjun tilts her head to the side, “That’s what we’re aiming for, but this is attempt number one.”

“She’s lying,” Jisung chimes in, “This is attempt number three _that I know of.”_

Renjun glares at him before redirecting her attention to Jaemin. “I asked Taeil to break down the ingredients as well as he could remember.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Jaemin says, a little dumbfounded. “Is it my birthday? Jisung, did I forget my own birthday?”

“It’s a regular boring Thursday,” Jisung reassures her.

“Sit down and eat your chicken,” Renjun waves a spatula at her.

So she sits down, and Renjun deposits four weirdly shaped beige pieces of… something in her plate. The smell is very intriguing. It does _not_ look like poultry. It does, however, remind her vaguely of the faded McDonalds advertisement.

Renjun pulls a stool from under the table and straddles it, rests her face against Jaemin’s shoulder blade. She’s warm and awfully real. Jaemin still doesn’t quite trust her senses as far as this goes. _This,_ the easiness  between them. Being allowed to just reach out and touch and have it mean the world. Looking, knowing Renjun will look back at her.

They argue. They fight, sometimes. One time Jaemin even made Renjun cry. She didn’t think she had the power to make Renjun cry, before. Now she knows what Renjun looks like after being kissed and she knows what Renjun looks like wrapped in her own sadness. She wants all of it. She wants even more.

“So?” Renjun asks, voice muffled by Jaemin’s shirt.

“Well,” Jaemin says, “I wouldn’t trade my world for it, but I understand why Taeil-oppa still remembers, I suppose.”

Renjun’s laughter reverberates through her body.

 _This,_ Jaemin thinks. _This is my blue sky_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for K-Pop Olymfics 2019 as part of Team Alternate Universe 2. Olymfics is a challenge in which participants write fics based on prompt sets and compete against other teams of writers, organized by genre. Competition winners are chosen by the readers, so please rate this fic using [this survey](https://forms.gle/WjgdpEzY4rDuPww19)!
> 
> Thank you for reading ❤️


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